At the far end of the exhibition hall, the noise and flickering lights were completely blocked by thick soundproofing enchantments.
In a secluded lounge, the air was heavy with an unsettling mix of aged parchment and dried herbs.
Helmut Volk, a German veteran spellcaster clad in a pure black robe, sprang upright from a deep, sunk-in armchair.
His gaunt face, nothing but skin over bone, twisted with every line of extreme emotion.
Shock.
Then, volcanic rage.
"Failed?"
His voice was dry, like two rough stones grinding against each other, each syllable trembling with disbelief.
"My Absolute Summon… failed?"
His gaze locked onto his right hand. The hand that should have been as steady as a rock, capable of effortlessly tracing the most complex spells, was now twitching uncontrollably. A cold magical backlash surged through his meridians, sending stabbing pains up his arm.
The rune key.
That small, perfect obsidian cube.
It was the culmination of his lifelong work, the fulcrum with which he intended to shift the balance of magical power across Europe, the only key to opening the legendary ancient runic library.
After decades of study and countless failed divinations, he had pieced together its existence and activation method.
He had only placed it on his apprentice's exhibit table for a routine "energy activation."
Using the exhibition's massive crowds and chaotic magical field, he had intended a gentle "pre-warming."
Who would have thought, it would be taken!
In his fury-scorched mind, countless possibilities flashed by.
He could not sense that his summoning curse had been negated by a faint, almost negligible shield. In his understanding, that was impossible.
Absolute Summon was nearly like a "law" in the study of spells: once a target was locked, there could be no interruption unless the caster died.
To counter it, there were only two possibilities:
The other party had used an extremely advanced, perhaps even lost, countercurse that severed the magical link at its source the instant the summon took effect.
Or…
An even more chilling thought arose:
The person who had taken the key was a wizard powerful enough to crush his spell with sheer magical force, someone utterly unfathomable.
Volk's gaunt chest heaved violently. He immediately raised his other, still-intact hand. The tip of his wand erupted with a silver light, rapidly sketching a complex tracking array in the air.
But the array only flickered for less than a second before "sizzling" into a wisp of green smoke, dissipating into the air.
The target's presence had vanished without a trace.
The tracking spell returned only a chaotic, completely disrupted magical void.
All he knew was the last known location of the key.
And near that location lingered a trace of foreign magical energy, so faint it was nearly imperceptible, and it did not belong to Germany.
Almost simultaneously with the failure of Volk's malicious Absolute Summon, halfway across Germany, in Berlin, in the underground level of the Ministry of Magic headquarters…
The "Illegal Magic Use Monitoring Center" erupted with piercing alarm bells, shattering the quiet of the afternoon.
It was a room filled with crystal balls, rune compasses, and alchemical instruments, all exuding cold order and metallic precision.
On the wall, a massive map of German magical territories displayed a red dot representing the exhibition hall, flashing wildly at an incredible rate.
"ALERT! High-level aggressive spell activity detected!"
"Type: Summoning, Compulsory Law!"
"Malice level: Extreme!"
A young Auror sprang to his feet, shouting aloud the data fed back from the monitoring crystal.
However, when they tried to pinpoint the source of the spell, everyone ran into unprecedented trouble.
"The tracking path has been interfered with! The target used extremely advanced anti-tracking magic!"
"Magical fluctuations have been split, refracted, and scrambled! Our spell model cannot reconstruct the source!"
"Damn it, all paths lead to the wrong nodes!"
The supervisor of the monitoring center, a serious-looking middle-aged witch, stared intently at the tangled magical traces in the main crystal ball, her brows knitted tightly.
Finally, after over ten tense and complex minutes of analysis, all tracking paths bizarrely, and incontrovertibly, converged on a single point.
The system pulled up all the data on that point.
Every trace of residual magic reluctantly pointed to the one individual nearest to that location at the time, a foreigner legally registered with the Ministry of Magic, authorized to use offensive spells:
A first-year student from the UK participating in an academic exchange.
Alan Scott.
A few days later, at the Burrow.
Alan had just finished his enjoyable trip to Germany and was sitting in his room, organizing the notes and souvenirs from the visit.
A feathered black German Royal Owl, its eyes sharp and precise, penetrated the protective spells around the Burrow and dropped a letter neatly onto his desk.
The envelope was made of the heaviest parchment, sealed with the imposing double-headed eagle insignia of the German Ministry of Magic.
Alan opened the envelope.
Inside was a letter written in a tone of bureaucratic arrogance, leaving no room for argument:
The German Ministry of Magic "warned" Alan Scott to immediately cease all illegal use of offensive spells while within Germany.
It also, in a condescending tone, "reminded" him that if there were a next time, they would file a formal diplomatic protest with the British Ministry of Magic through the International Magical Cooperation Department.
Alan held the official warning in his hands. His expression froze for three seconds.
His mind raced, colliding every detail of the German trip with the hidden secrets he had observed.
Then, instead of showing anger or resentment, he couldn't help but let out a soft laugh.
It was light, but full of a deep, all-seeing amusement.
He immediately understood.
He had just taken the fall for the true master of the key hidden behind the scenes, a sudden, cross-national "black pot" dumped on him.
Deliberately…
Alan placed the warning letter on his desk and tapped lightly on the words "Alan Scott" with his fingertips.
In his eyes, there was no trace of indignation. Instead, they gleamed with a near-toy-like curiosity, brimming with the urge to explore.
An official system that could be framed…
A monitoring system that, because of interference from anti-tracking magic, would automatically pin responsibility on the nearest registered wizard to the spell source.
This was not a bug.
This was a super backdoor that could be exploited infinitely.
Alan decided then and there: he would exploit this system loophole, crafted by someone else, to its fullest potential.
~~----------------------
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